


they in the sea being burnt

by lucy_wf



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, a million words for fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 07:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19825606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucy_wf/pseuds/lucy_wf
Summary: “It is quite beautiful, isn’t it?”, says Aziraphale, and Crowley turns to look at him. The angel is wearing an expression of amazement, and it lights up his face bright as the incandescent magma. “The lava is so fascinating. It almost makes you forget you would burn up if you touched it.”Crowley looks forward again, and he can feel the heat, and smell the faint scent of ash and brimstone, see the pitch-black rock forged from fire. It evokes a deep, visceral feeling in him, something that he can’t identify but that disturbs him profoundly. It reminds him too much of another place engulfed in flames and the stench of sulphur. Of hellfire.The closeness to the volcano is starting to make him uneasy; he is struck by the irrational urge to get the angel as far away as possible from the hungry burning river, even though he knows that they are perfectly safe."Crowley has always disliked seeing Aziraphale get too close to fire.





	they in the sea being burnt

**Author's Note:**

> hello, my name is lucy and i like sappiness and angst, so have some of both. title is from "a burnt ship", a great little poem by john donne.
> 
> i spent way too much time doing research for this fic.

**Eden, 4004 BC**

The first time Crowley gives it any thought is two days after Eve bit the apple.

He’s sitting on the Eastern wall with Aziraphale; they’ve been watching the humans in the distance and chatting idly amongst themselves. Crowley – at this point in time, Crawly – knows they’ll probably have to leave Eden’s walls soon, what with the humans going away and everything, but he isn’t looking forward to it. These moments with the angel are the most enjoyable he’s had since, well, since.

Crawly is reflecting on this as something comes to his mind. “Aziraphale?”

“What is it?”

“Your flaming sword. It’s been bugging me for a bit now. I thought fire was the only thing that could destroy angels, yes? Isn’t it, y’ know, a tad dangerous for you to go swinging around something that could kill you at a touch?”

Aziraphale seems taken aback. “Well, I mean. I am a Principality, I should expect that I am responsible enough to handle a weapon.” He doesn’t seem too sure, though. “Either way, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like the sword was ablaze with hellfire anyway, and you should know _that_ is the kind of fire that’s dangerous. Not some measly Earth version.”

Crawly does know this. Yet, for some reason, thinking of this angel coming so close to fire unsettles him. He knows the burn of flame all-too-well. Something inside him wants to keep Aziraphale from knowing it too.

“Yeah, you’re right. Stupid question.” 

**China, 1224**

It’s a beautiful night; the sky is clear and the silver splendour of the moon is in full display. Aziraphale moves along the Beijing crowds, brought together by the Mid-Autumn festival. He is rather enjoying the celebration, and it’s only partly due to those delicious mooncakes.

Eventually, he finds himself at the riverside. The angel separates himself from the crowd, approaching a small group of people by the water. They are lighting sky lanterns, something Aziraphale finds delightful. Humans always manage to come up with such fascinating little things, don’t they?

Nearly all those people there are children, he notices, laughing and laughing as they release the lanterns. One single taller figure stands among them, and as Aziraphale approaches them he realizes their hair is not black but deep red. His heart skips a beat; he knows who that is.

“Crowley?”, he chances. The figure turns around, and it is indeed the demon. He smirks at Aziraphale.

“Angel. Haven’t seen you in a while. Come launch some lanterns with us, why don’t you?”

Aziraphale ponders this for a moment. He’s been trying his best not to get _too_ friendly with Crowley; he’s a demon, after all. The adversary.

But it’s only sky lanterns. What could be demonic about that?

He walks over to Crowley, grabs a lantern, and one of the children hands him a little flaming stick to light the candle with. He does just that, the light flickering a little in the breeze, then lets go of the lantern, smiling as he watches it rise. It joins what seems like dozens upon dozens of others; it truly is mesmerising.

It’s when he’s lighting the next one that he notices Crowley staring at him – at his hands, actually. He’s frowning, and Aziraphale, despite himself, can’t help but feel a stab of worry. A moment later, the demon notices he’s been caught and looks away. What was that about?

A drop of wax slides off the candle and toward Aziraphale’s finger, and he is too preoccupied with avoiding with to give it any further thought. 

**Bali, 1512**

The caravel had launched anchor, and a small group of sailors made their way to the shore. Aziraphale steps gingerly out of the boat and onto the white sand. He’s been at sea for far too long, honestly. In his opinion, the Portuguese are too bloody enthusiastic about the whole sea travelling business. Life aboard doesn’t suit him at all. But heavenly duties, and all that. He doesn’t have much of a choice.

The other travellers are already making their way ahead, eager to map the island and make contact with the local people. Aziraphale stays behind; this beach is so lovely, after all. It would be a shame not to take a little stroll and enjoy the beautiful moonlight.

He doesn’t run into anyone as he walks along the unblemished sand, but up ahead he can see smoke and the faint glow of a campfire. Well, why not introduce himself and make a good first impression? Surely it can’t hurt.

When he reaches the fire, however, he is surprised to find he _already_ knows the lone person basking in the warmth. His hair is longer than the last time he’d seen him, the fiery curls reaching almost to his waist.

“Crowley, my dear boy!” He wants to add _it’s so nice to see you,_ but he stops himself. You never know when Heaven might be watching.

Strangely enough, the demon doesn’t look all that surprised to see him. He’s missing his glasses, which is also quite strange (though definitely not unwelcome). “Hello, Aziraphale. Came with that fleet, did you?”

“Yes, yes. A dreadful trip, really. I couldn’t wait to reach land.” He sits in front of the fire, not quite close to Crowley, not quite far either. “Lovely little spot you have here.”

It’s not particularly cold, but the night breeze is chilly enough to make Aziraphale want to get closer to the fire. He scoots forward a little, holding his palms in front of him and humming contentedly.

When he turns back to Crowley to ask him what he’s doing in this part of the world, the demon is looking at him. Aziraphale is caught for a moment, because Crowley’s golden eyes are reflecting the flames in a way that is nothing short of breath-taking, and it’s a few seconds before he notices his furrowed brows and the intensity of his gaze. He looks anxious, even a little frightened, and the angel’s chest tightens. “Crowley? Is something wrong?”

The demon immediately looks away. “No, no, of course not.” His tone is clipped, though, and the uneasy expression remains. Aziraphale pointedly stares at him until he finally continues, in a small voice. “You’re uh, y’re standing awfully close to the fire there. Wouldn’t do for you to burn yourself.”

The first thought that crosses Aziraphale’s mind is _that’s ridiculous, Crowley, I could heal myself in an instant even if I did burn my hand_ , but the intensity in the demon’s eyes stops him. Instead, what he says is “Oh, of course, how silly of me. Thank you.” He sits back a little, and Crowley visibly relaxes. He pulls a pair of shades out of nowhere and slips them on, and Aziraphale isn’t sure what just happened or what he did wrong, but he feels it’s better not to ask. 

**Hawaii, 1758**

A lonely figure stands at the base of the fiery mountain, looking on. The locals are already more than used to the volcano’s whims; they are focused in assuring their settlement is safe from the path of the flames, leaving the white-clad foreigner alone in watching the Mauna Loa.

Alone, that is, until Crowley makes his way to his side.

“Hello, angel. Fancy running into you here.”

Aziraphale starts; then he recognizes the demon and his expression softens. “Crowley. Whatever are you doing in such a peaceful little island?”

The demon gives him something like a mischievous grin. “The forces of evil work in mysterious ways.” Aziraphale tuts at him, and he relents. “Yeah, fine, I’m not really in business right now. Just passing by. Heard the Americans are coming by in a few decades, wanted to see the place before, you know.”

There’s a little “ah” of acknowledgment from Aziraphale, and then both of them fall into a comfortable silence. From where they stand, they can see the incandescent river slowly making its way down the mountain. Mauna Loa often lacks the fury of its kin; there are no lethal pieces of debris raining from the skies, or suffocating clouds of death like in Pompeii. The mere memory of it is enough to make Crowley shiver.

No, here and now there is only the slow-flowing lava and the idle background noise of the Hawaiian people going about their day. They are close enough to the flaming river for Crowley to feel the heat of it on his face. 

“It is quite beautiful, isn’t it?”, says Aziraphale, and Crowley turns to look at him. The angel is wearing an expression of amazement, and it lights up his face bright as the incandescent lava. “I mean, it is still a volcano, and quite dangerous, of course! But this eruption, it’s so… gentle _._ The lava is so fascinating. It almost makes you forget you would burn up if you touched it.”

 _Burn up._ Crowley looks forward again, and he can feel the heat, and smell the faint scent of ash and brimstone, see the pitch-black rock forged from fire. It evokes a deep, visceral feeling in him, something that he can’t identify but that disturbs him profoundly. It reminds him too much of another place engulfed in flames and the stench of sulphur. Of hellfire.

The closeness to the volcano is starting to make him uneasy; he is struck by the irrational urge to get the angel as far away as possible from the hungry burning river, even though he knows that they are perfectly safe. He shuffles a little closer to Aziraphale, who is too entranced to notice.

The urge remains, but Crowley does nothing else. He stands by the angel’s side, watching in silence, and if his gaze darts to the side more often than strictly necessary, well. It’s not like anybody will notice.

**London, 2010**

It’s a lazy day, and there’s really no work to do – Crowley hasn’t heard from Downstairs since last week. Aziraphale has invited him over, ranting excitedly about some new television show (“I didn’t even know you had a telly, angel.” “Well, I _didn’t,_ but then I found out about cooking shows, and they are positively delightful!”). He’s been a little laxer with their _fraternising_ (yes, Crowley is still hurt about that, and can you blame him?) ever since the whole Antichrist business started. They’d watched a couple episodes of the baking show before Aziraphale had sat up and proclaimed his intention to bake something himself. Not miracle something up, as Crowley had thought; no, for some reason he decided he wanted to do it himself, the human way. 

That’s why Crowley is here right now: draped over a chair and watching Aziraphale trying to figure out how to use the little kitchen in his flat above the bookshop. There’s a variety of ingredients neatly organized on the counter, and the angel is currently attempting to melt some chocolate. As far as entertainment goes, it’s good stuff.

Aziraphale mumbles to himself as he works. “I do hope I am doing this right… yes, I think this is what that young man on the television did… ah, says right here I need some oil.” He rummages around the groceries on the counter and takes the bottle of oil with a little exclamation of triumph. It’s unbearably cute. Especially when he struggles to figure out how to open the safety seal. Crowley is about to tease him for it when he finally figures it out.

Well, “figures it out” is relative. In his eagerness, Aziraphale forgets his own strength for a moment and kickstarts a chain reaction. The cap comes flying off, and so does a generous portion of the cooking oil. Startled, the angel elbows the chocolate pan, sending it off the stove, and the oil lands right on the now exposed flame.

It flares up like anything, and Aziraphale’s arm is still on top of it.

The angel lets out a yelp of pain, moving to miracle the fire out, but Crowley’s done it before he gets the chance to. He nearly runs to his side; his heart doesn’t even need to beat, but right now it seems eager to work overtime. Crowley knows that Aziraphale’s arm is only mildly burned, that he can heal it with a though; he _knows_ this, but there’s a vague sense of panic rising up inside him anyway. He can’t even find the breath to ask the angel if he’s alright. 

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale waves a hand and there is no burn mark anymore. “That was very clumsy of me.” He stares at the mess he’s made of the stove, disappointed.

Crowley still hasn’t quite caught his breath, but he manages to speak with some degree of control. “Angel, ‘m sorry, but I don’t think baking is for you.”

Aziraphale looks up at him, one long, searching look, and then he smiles. “No, my dear, I think it rather isn’t.” 

**London, The Second Day of The Rest of Their Lives**

It’s the day after their failed executions, and Crowley is lounging in Aziraphale’s newly restored couch. Last night, after the Ritz, they’d walked back to the bookshop. The joy in the angel’s face at the sight of the Antichrist’s handiwork had warmed Crowley inside more than any amount of the champagne they’d been drinking. At Aziraphale’s suggestion, he’d spent the night on his little flat above the shop, sleeping in a bed that had clearly never been used.

“And I already told you about the whole towel business,” Aziraphale was saying, “but the _look_ on Michael’s face! I hadn’t had that much fun in centuries, dear boy!”

Crowley had been more than reluctant to let him go Downstairs on his own, and he still does _not_ want to think of what could have happened had he been found out. Still, he’s more than a little proud of how well the angel handled himself. He watches Aziraphale talk, taking in how happy he is, his cheeks flush with enthusiasm. His heart swells when the angel snickers at his own words.

His contentment is broken by Aziraphale’s next words.

“Well, but you still haven’t told me anything on _your_ end. What happened up there?”

Here’s the deal. It’s one thing to hear about how Hell was going to (painfully and quite effectively) execute Crowley. It’s _Hell,_ after all; the concept of mercy never really feels like wandering Downstairs. It’s surprising he even had the right to a trial, bogus as it may have been.

But Heaven. Heaven, supposed to be _good,_ and forgiving, and merciful. Heaven had no qualms about murdering their rogue angel. No trial, no second chances, no _anything._ Just the archangel Gabriel telling Crowley-as-Aziraphale to just _shut his mouth and die already._

Aziraphale really had done a better job at keeping his cool than him; Crowley had been unable to keep his expression from showing the sheer disgust he’d felt in that moment. Here was Gabriel, Archangel, second only to the Almighty, supposed paragon of all that was good and holy, telling one of his own to step into his death. Here was the raging storm of hellfire that would have burnt Aziraphale to ashes.

He almost can’t bear to think about it, but the angel is still waiting for an answer. Crowley does his best to remain nonchalant, immensely grateful for the fact that has his sunglasses on.

“Oh, you know. You were supposed to help along the Apocalypse, look how much you’ve inconvenienced us, now we have to start all over again. Gabriel being positively charming, as usual. The works.” Aziraphale looks a bit suspicious. Bugger. Crowley quickly comes up with a brilliant plan to divert his attention. “I could really go for a cup of tea right now, angel. How does that sound?”

“Sounds like a lovely idea, dear. I’ll go put the kettle on.” A flawless strategy. Crowley really is a genius.

He remains sprawled on the couch, watching as the angel gets the kettle, then grabs a match to light the stove.

As he strikes it, everything seems to come to a stop.

All of a sudden, all Crowley can see is the tiny flame at the angel’s fingertips. He pictures it growing and growing and becoming vicious and hungry. He sees a little bookshop engulfed in flames, smells burnt books and charred wood, hears the roar of the fire drowning out his shouts. He’s in an infinite, impossibly white room, and there is an inferno of hellfire devouring Aziraphale whole as cruel purple eyes look on.

Before he knows it, he’s off the couch and at the angel’s side, taking the match off his hands. He grabs it carelessly, closing his full hand around it, and the flame burns his hand before going out, but he doesn’t care. He’s been burned much worse before, and what matters is that the hellfire can’t get Aziraphale now-

He blinks. There is no hellfire. There’s just an extinguished match in his closed fist, and a stunned angel trying to find words. Crowley can feel tears prickling at his eyes, and he doesn’t know why.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale’s voice is so soft. “What’s wrong? Is this because of what happened yesterday? What you don’t want to tell me about?”

As always, his bastard of an angel is too smart for his own good.

Crowley remains silent, opening his fist to study the innocent match, and then miracling it out of existence. Looking at the wretched thing hurts him almost physically.

He lets himself be gently guided over to the couch, and he can feel a damned tear falling down his face, and then he’s sitting down and his hand is between Aziraphale’s. The angel takes his scorched palm, ghosts his own fingers over it, and the skin is unmarred as before. He looks up at Crowley and wipes away the single fugitive tear. Then his hand moves to his sunglasses, and there’s a silent question in his eyes, and Crowley nods, and off they come. “Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and his voice is still soft, so soft, like he might scare him away if he speaks any louder. “Would you please tell me about it?” 

And Crowley doesn’t want him to know, doesn’t want to describe a blazing bookshop and ruthless violet eyes, but how can he deny him? He hasn’t ever been able to, he’s not about to start.

“You didn’t even have a trial,” he starts. Aziraphale is listening attentively, his hands now back on Crowley’s. “There was just Uriel, and Sandalphon, and _Gabriel,_ wanting to do away with you as soon as possible. Like you were dirt to be shoved under a rug.”

He has to pause for a moment to stop his voice from breaking. “They brought in hellfire. They wanted you to _burn,_ angel. Gabriel was just so bloody eager to watch you die. I stared at the hellfire, and I- I thought, _what if this really was Aziraphale,_ and I couldn’t imagine it. I just couldn’t imagine a world where you’d been taken away. When I saw the match, I saw the fire taking you. In Heaven, here, when the shop burned, and I couldn’t bear it.”

There’s another tear threatening to fall, and this time Crowley just lets it. It feels cathartic. It feels liberating to finally have the courage to tell Aziraphale how much he matters to him. Aziraphale looks like he’s on the brink of tears himself, and yet he is smiling.

“Is this why you’ve always been wary of seeing me close to fire?”

Crowley hadn’t even thought of that. _Yes_ , he thinks, _it is._ Fire is hungry. Fire destroys. He knows this better than anyone. Letting his angel near it had always irrationally scared him, and now it was even worse.

“Oh, my dear. You should have told me.” Aziraphale is crying too, now; silent tears that leave sparkling trails along his cheeks. “I felt the same way about the holy water. When you first asked me for it, I was so scared of what could happen. And what they were going to do in Hell… oh, Crowley. I couldn’t possibly bear to lose you either.”

Aziraphale seems to hesitate, but only for a moment, and he’s pulling Crowley into a hug. Crowley is too stunned to do anything; it’s the first time in six thousand years. It feels good. He grips at the angel, feels his warmth, feels him _there,_ alive and well.

He tries to keep his mouth shut, to bury his words on Aziraphale’s shoulder, but they escape anyway like the sneaky buggers they are. “Please don’t ever leave me, angel.”

The hug tightens in response. “Of course not, my dear. We faced down Heaven and Hell and Satan himself. No one is taking you from me.”

They stay like this for a long time, drawing comfort from each other. Crowley feels the truth of Aziraphale’s words in his very soul. They’ve been connected ever since the Earth was created. They’ve been together almost since before the very invention of time. He knows that, for Aziraphale, he’d face down the Almighty Herself with nothing but a tire iron in hand.

And he knows that the angel would do the same. He’s gone to Hell for him, after all.

They’ve always had each other, and they always will.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! comments are always incredibly appreciated.


End file.
